


Sugar

by NikaNielson



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 12 Days of Sterek, Christmas Fluff, M/M, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 05:13:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2800826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NikaNielson/pseuds/NikaNielson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> Derek glared. "Gee, Stiles, we've been imprisoned by a rabid Christmas elf beneath a sprig of mistletoe. How will we escape. Whatever shall we do."</i>
  <br/>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sugar

The burn of frostbite was novel for Derek. In his twenty-four years, he had been: shot, stabbed, cursed, nearly decapitated, successfully impaled, raped, bound, burned, branded, sleep deprived, electrocuted, cut, pummeled, and whipped. But never frostbitten. 

He flexed his arm, shaking it like it might erase the blue, mottled handprint on his wrist. It tingled unpleasantly. 

The jingling of bells warned Derek that the elf was swooping back in for the kill. He whirled to the side, narrowly avoiding the beast's grasping hands. It was short, shorter than Lydia, with absurdly pointed ears and a costume of kelly green felt. It—it was utterly sexless, as far as Derek could see and smell—grew pinker around the cheeks as they fought.

"Faithless scum," it squeaked, shooting skyward and tossing its body into a summersault. 

It bounced more than jumped, faster than a squirrel, ricocheting off the trees, grabbing for any bit of bare skin it could find. It carried no weapons, as far as Derek could tell, but wherever its clammy hands touched turned cold and dead with frostbite. It took all of Derek's instincts and training to dodge its hands. 

He was starting to pant, and that was alarming. Derek didn't pant. He didn't get tired, either, except obviously he was. He slashed at the elf with his claws extended, but instead of barely missing his mark, he didn't so much as nick a hair on its felted behind. 

The elf smiled, the edges of its lips curling inward in two perfectly illustrated spirals, like it was something drawn into the air rather than breathing it. Its knees bent as it gathered itself for the next attack. 

Derek braced himself. He was too tired to dodge it any more, his muscles twitching. 

The elf leapt. 

An arrow caught the beast in the chest, knocking it out of the air. It shrieked—Derek winced at the pitch—and thudded into the tree, rolling to the snow in a heap of green. 

Stiles rushed out of the underbrush. The bow hung from one hand, and he brandished a torch with the other. He skidded to a stop in front of Derek, swiping the torch in the air in the direction of the elf. 

"What the hell are you doing here?" Derek grabbed Stiles' shoulders, trying to force him back, behind him. 

Stiles shook him off, eyes glued to the elf. The firelight reflected in his eyes, amber and yellow and bright with action. 

"Protecting you from numb-nuts over here. What does it look like?" He smelled like snow.

" _Skeptic_ ," the elf hissed. It lifted its face from the ground, mouth twisted, features pinched into a parody of rage. Its hat tumbled off one ear, clinging to the other and revealing its balding head, pate encircled by wisps of ginger curls. 

Stiles thrust the torch behind him, and Derek grabbed it on instinct. Stiles raised his bow as the elf pushed to its knees. 

The elf dodged Stiles' shot, rolled to the left. Stiles strung another arrow. As he let fly, the elf jumped, flipping towards them with a shriek. 

Derek dropped the torch and grabbed Stiles. He dragged him under the bulk of his body, ignoring Stiles' flailing and the quiver of arrows digging into his stomach. 

But the elf never landed. Derek watched it slam into the tree branch above their heads. The branch shimmered. A dusting of snow drifted down, scintillating peculiarly. 

Quiet. 

"Are we dead?" said Stiles, muffled by his mouthful of Derek's jacket. 

Derek unfolded. He didn't watch while Stiles straightened himself, not even glancing as Stiles righted his t-shirt, pulling it down in the back where his coat had ridden up. He threaded long fingers in his hair and shook out the snow, leaving it in messy, touchable spikes. 

"Not yet," said Derek. He stood up, peering around them. He flexed his fingers, claws still extended. Derek wasn't about to underestimate their foe, no matter how short, shiny, or shrill. 

"I can't believe you dropped the torch," said Stiles, picking up the blackened branch. "You're supposed to wave it _at_ the monster of ice and snow." 

"Gosh, I'm so sorry, I was a little focused on shielding your frail human body. Next time I'll just wave the stick as the monster dive-bombs us." 

"Thanks," Stiles deadpanned. "I'd really appreciate that. You're a fuckin' bro. PS, asswipe, it was a _flaming_ stick." 

Derek snorted. 

"Look, whatever. Twinkle-Shit ain't dead yet; we should tell the others."

"Call," said Derek.

"Brilliant plan. Except for the raging blizzard that's totally fucked my reception for the last three days, that's a genius idea. Nobel-worthy."

Stiles turned away, back towards the direction he'd come. 

And stopped. 

Derek huffed. "Come on," he said, pushing past Stiles'. 

And stopped. 

They stood beside each other, hands almost touching, their toes aligned at an invisible boundary. 

"Oh god, for real?" Stiles whined. 

Derek's mouth filled with fangs, and he whirled around, expecting the ambush to come at any moment. 

"Heel, Cujo." 

"Fuck you," said Derek, still glaring at the trees. 

Stiles grabbed Derek's chin and tugged. Derek snarled and snapped at his hand, and Stiles jumped, flinching away. 

"Ugh," he said, though Derek could hear his heart pounding. "Just look." He pointed at the branch above them. 

A red ribbon wrapped the branch, holding the green stems of a leafy plant, white berries studded along its length. Derek took a deep breath, then sneezed. 

"Mistletoe," he said it like a curse. 

"Brilliant deduction." Stiles rubbed his face with both hands, scrubbing at his cheeks. He turned on his heel, letting his momentum slam his back into the tree. He grunted, still covering his face with his hands. "Fuck." 

Derek walked right up to him and grabbed one of his wrists, tugging his hand down to reveal his face. Before Stiles could open his mouth to argue, Derek bent down, intent. 

"What the—dude!" 

Stiles dodged his kiss, squirming to the left so Derek collided with his shoulder, instead. His heart thundered in his chest, his scent sharpening with adrenaline, sharper and warmer than when he'd faced down the elf. 

"W-what are you doing?" Like he didn't know. He stared at Derek's mouth and licked his lips. His cheeks flushed bright as his pink-nipped nose.

"Getting us out of here." 

"With your tongue?" 

Derek glared. "Gee, Stiles, we've been imprisoned by a rabid Christmas elf beneath a sprig of mistletoe. How will we escape. Whatever shall we do."

"Okay, you don't need to be an asshole." 

Derek raised an eyebrow, but Stiles wouldn't meet his eyes. He flicked his gaze back and forth, never pausing too long on Derek's face. 

Stiles cleared his throat, lifted a hand, made a vague gesture, then, with an abrupt hop, launched himself towards Derek's face and planted his lips on his cheekbone. 

Stiles scuttled away. 

Derek turned to follow. "Stop wasting time," he bit out. "You really think you're going to break this thing with a—"

Stiles waltzed past their old footprints, turning around to walk backwards and smirk at Derek (nearly walking straight into a tree and tripping once on an exposed root). 

"You were saying, Smoochie?" 

Stiles turned back around and continued his march into the forest. 

Derek fell into his wake. Stiles reeked with smugness. 

"Let's _go_ ," he said after a minute of walking. Christ, humans were slow. He swerved around Stiles on the path, knocking into his shoulder. 

"I'm going!"

"The town won't even have to worry about the elf," said Derek. "They'll die of old age."

"Are you offering a piggy-back ride? What? No? Then shut up." 

"Look, just give me the keys, I'll go into town, and—"

"Uh, no. And also: no. Last time you drove Roscoe, I lost a bumper." 

"And I replaced it." 

" _A bumper_. Also, in case you hadn't noticed, I saved your furry ass back there. Yeah. You're fucking welcome. We're going together. Buddy system, bitch." 

They stepped out of the woods and onto the highway. Derek stalked down the shoulder towards where he could see the Jeep parked at an odd—and frankly illegal—angle. Like Stiles had barely bothered to get out of oncoming traffic and throw the parking brake before rushing to Derek's defense. 

Derek quickened his step. He reached the Jeep first by a wide margin, and yanked on the passenger side door. 

"Open the damn doors." 

Stiles shot him a wide-eyed 'what the fuck is wrong with you' look and slowly slid his key into the driver side door. 

" _Stiles_." 

"Okay! Jesus." He pulled open the door and flicked the locks open. 

They bundled into the car together. Derek snapped his seatbelt on immediately. Stiles unhooked his quiver and bow, stowed both in the backseat, buckled his seatbelt, and turned to settle in and start the car. 

"No, please, move like molasses," said Derek, "it's not like there are any lives at stake or anything." 

"What the actual fuck is wrong with you?" Stiles pulled them into the lane, headed towards town, but he switched between watching the road and staring at Derek. 

"Nothing," said Derek. He crossed his arms over his chest. 

"Oh, well, now I'm convinced. Glad we cleared that up." 

"Shut up. Drive faster."

"I'm doing thirty over the speed limit, Groucho. At this point, I might be risking actual, for-real jail time, so if you wanna arrive at our destination with all your accessories included, we'll stick to ninety on the black ice, a'ight?" 

"Pull over." 

"What? No." 

"Pull over. I'll drive, and we'll get there in one piece, twice as fast." 

"Oh, right, I forgot being a werewolf gives you supernatural driving skills."

"My reaction time is faster by a factor of ten thousand or so." 

"They've taken precautions. We're getting there plenty fast. You are not driving. Ever. Suck it up." 

Derek huffed, dug his fingers into his arms, and turned toward the window. 

Silence fell for a shaky, awkward minute. The scent of Stiles' aggravation diffused through the car and made Derek's hair prickle on his arms and nape.

"Y'know, if I didn't know you as I do, and if I didn't know what a mature, responsible, _controlled_ lupine twenty-something you were, I'd say you were pouting like a four-year-old denied sugar." 

Derek gritted his teeth. 

Stiles glanced at him from the corner of his eye, then adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. 

"If I didn't know you as I do, if I didn't—" 

"You know, some people would say that driving without both arms in an unrealistic goal, but I believe in you. I think you've got a two-armed heart." 

Stiles licked his lips, shook his head, but let the silence stand.

*

It took them five minutes of digging to reach the Stilinski's front door. Stiles pushed open the mountain ash latch and let Derek squeeze past him before re-sealing the boundary.

Derek breathed deeply as their hips brushed, drawing in the concentrated scents of anxiety, aggression, confusion, pinesap….

They reported to the group gathered in the kitchen. 

Books and laptops covered every inch of the kitchen table, and Lydia sat in the middle of it, her hair pulled back in a greasy knot. There was a shadow under every eye, especially the Sheriff's, who had only a few minutes to hear their news before pushing back out into the storm. The phones are mostly down across town, but he and some volunteer deputies were making house calls, checking on people, making sure they had food and fire. 

The man was slipping his hat on when Derek finished telling them about Stiles' entrance. 

"Did you kill it?" said the Sheriff. 

"No," said Derek, with not a little disappointment. The others sighed; Lydia slumped. 

The Sheriff just nodded and grabbed his coat. 

"Then how'd you escape?" said Scott. 

"I think I wounded it bad enough to scare it," said Stiles. "It set a mistletoe trap and booked." 

"A mistletoe trap?" Lydia's brow furrowed. 

"Uh," said Stiles. Derek could hear his heart jump. "Yeah."

Derek put his hands on the table, leaning forward and regaining the group's attention. "We got out of it—"

"Did you make out?" 

Derek turned to glare at Isaac, but he seemed unfazed. Derek missed the cowering days. 

"Obviously," said Stiles, his tone so arch that even Lydia cracked a smile. Scott snorted. 

Derek scowled at all of them. "We got away," he said. 

He couldn't help but glance towards Stiles. He found Stiles already watching him. Stiles squinted, peering at Derek the way he peered at his mystery boards of string and paper. Derek looked away. 

"What do you have?" said Derek. 

"A clue," said Lydia. "A starting place. Some of the Norse mythology is…." She rubbed her temples and trailed off. 

"Maybe a plan," said Scott. 

Stiles pulled up a chair. "I'll be the judge of that." He made grabby hands towards Lydia. 

She rolled her eyes but handed him her laptop. 

"Get me when you figure it out," said Derek. 

"Where are you going?" said Scott. 

Derek didn't answer.

*

Stiles' bedroom window frosted over with lacy fractals. It wasn't quite natural, and Derek didn't want to touch the glass, but he watched the ice shift—knit and unravel and knit. It'd been that way for days, and Derek didn't know how much longer they could keep the ice on the outside.

He snagged a stack of research from Stiles' bedside table and settled into his pillows to read. He couldn't do nothing. It would kill him. 

He'd read three-quarters of his stack when he heard galloping footsteps up the stairs, down the hallway. Stiles burst into the room. 

"There you are," said Stiles. 

"Brilliant deduction." 

Stiles waved a hand like he was too busy to think of a rejoinder. He settled onto the other side of the bed and began stripping off his winter jacket, reaching into the closet for discarded shirts, bringing them to his nose to snuffle and discard. 

"Nothing on that floor is clean," said Derek. 

"Yeah, well, when the washing machine starts running again, I'll wash them." 

Derek lifted both of his eyebrows and Stiles shot him a snotty look as he shoved his arms through a long-sleeved T-shirt. It was his fourth layer. Even so, Derek saw him rubbing his long-fingered hands together like they were chilled. 

"I figured it out, you know," said Stiles. 

Derek's eyes leapt from Stiles' hands to his smirking face. 

Stiles levered himself up the bed, settling onto the pillow to Derek's right. Their shoulders brushed. 

"I know why you're so grumpy."

"We’re under attack." 

"Not it."

"I'm trying to read."

"Nope." Stiles popped the 'P'. 

Derek refused to guess anymore. He looked back at his stack of printouts and pointedly turned the page. 

One of those long-fingered hands appeared, stretched across Derek's page like a spider. 

"I said, I figured it out." Stiles' look was steady and knowing and not a little bit smug. "It's 'cause you're four years old." Stiles' eyes dipped towards Derek's mouth. "And I denied you sugar." 

Derek felt his heart kick. "No," he said. 

Somehow Stiles' face was a little closer, his eyes a little bigger. "No? No, you're not four? No, I didn't deny you?" 

"No, I—"

"Or no, you're not pouting like a child because I didn’t want to make out with you?" 

"None of the above," said Derek. He cast about for something to say, something sharp and heavy, or at least especially shiny—any sort of distraction would do. 

He was still searching when Stiles' scent crashed into him and soft lips fell on his mouth. Stiles touched the edge of his jaw, pressing lightly as he planted a sweet, close-mouthed kiss to his lips. And held it. 

Too long. 

Derek sat frozen, hands still gripping his pages. 

Stiles pulled away. "Wow," said Stiles. "So…wow. I read that wrong." 

He flung himself back, away from Derek. His eyes went everywhere but Derek's face, his fingers plucking—ripping—at the bedding, his heartbeat ratcheting up. He flooded the room with the stink of humiliation. "Sorry. I…I mean, wow, okay. Ha. Please don’t kill me. I'll just—" 

Stiles had one leg off the bed when Derek grabbed his shirt with both hands and yanked him back up, over the bedding, into his lap, his arms splayed over Derek's chest as he tried to find his balance. 

Derek kissed him. Not sweetly. Not softly. No waiting. He crushed their lips together, and when he felt Stiles start to respond, he bullied his way into Stiles' mouth, stroking their tongues and coaxing him faster, higher. 

Stiles squirmed against him. His hips jerked, pressing against Derek's stomach. A moan vibrated into Derek's mouth. Stiles held on by Derek's shoulders, and Derek softened his grip on Stiles' neckline, smoothed a hand down Stiles' back; the other hand drifted up to cup his square jaw. Stiles' skin was warm and soft, radiating heat under his layers of clothing. 

The musk and taste of arousal swamped his senses, filling him up and drowning out the world. 

When, finally, Stiles pulled back, Derek was still lost in the smell of it—them—watching with a fixed gaze as Stiles' Adam's apple bobbed and his pulse throbbed beneath his skin. 

"I knew it," said Stiles. 

"You did want to make out with me." 

Stiles huffed and sat back on his heels, ass planted in Derek's lap. On instinct, Derek settled his hands on his hips. He looked down at Derek and tilted his head. And smirked. 

"You know," he said, "we are in a bed." 

"No."

"With nothing else to do."

"Scott can hear us." 

"And nowhere else to go." 

"Scott can _smell_ us." 

Stiles rolled his hips, and Derek strangled a moan. 

" _Baby, it's cold outside._ "

He grabbed Stiles' waist and dug his fingers in, tugging him to a standstill. 

"We're under attack." 

Stiles rolled off him with a sigh. He starfished on the bed, limbs spread, hand flopped over Derek's legs and one ankle dangled over the edge of the mattress. His disappointment was palpable, as was the erection in his jeans. 

Derek touched a thumb to the edge of Stiles' mouth. "When it's dead," he said. 

Stiles considered. Then nodded. "Fine," he said. 

Derek felt the muscles stretch as Stiles smiled. His eyes lit, and his scent turned snowy. 

Stiles rolled off the edge of the bed, tripping only once before striding towards the bedroom door. 

"Where are you going?" said Derek. 

"Hunting." 

Derek smiled.


End file.
